143 Paces

My work involves people who are in conflict with other people. And what I do in my work involves creating space that allows those people to get a break from abrasive things that irritate and aggravate them into a painful conflict experience.

Sometimes that space has to be physical space. In those cases, the conflict is so intense that being in the same room is too uncomfortable, too painful. And it’s in those mediations that I become a shuttle diplomat — dispatched with communication after communication that will create a new space for understanding.

Recently I conducted a mediation in another state. The parties asked for total separation and, although that’s not my preferred way of handling things, I agreed given the nature of their dispute. Not having a neutral place to host the mediation, I rented two suites in the same hotel. The suites were 20 rooms apart and arranged so that the parties could come and go without fear of crossing paths.

So, over the course of two days, I shuttled back and forth between the parties. Depending on the message I carried, the 143 paces between the rooms seemed very different. Some trips seemed very long. Other journeys were almost over before they started.

It was somewhere in the second day that I began to see these 143 steps as my space. I realized that even those who are inserted in a conflict for the purpose of creating space for others need that same luxury.

I came to cherish each of the 143. Although I only counted them once, I came to know every one of them well.

Honor the space that you’re allowed. I’m convinced that the true cathedrals of our lives are those spaces that give us room to find peace. And, if I could presume to know the mind of God, those same spaces would be just the sort of cathedral where He would prefer to meet us.

Faith

This has been a difficult year in many ways. I didn’t write a Christmas letter to slip in with the cards that Nancy faithfully selects, writes personal notes in, and stays up all hours to hand address. Come to think about it, I didn’t write a Christmas letter last year either. Twelve months ago, it was a mixture of fatigue, laziness, and a lack of time that drained the creative juices and stopped the project.

This year was just too difficult. In one of the Christmas cards to a dear, but distant friend, I wrote that this had been a year of blessings with a heavy dose of tragedy and a sprinkling of comedy. After further thought, I realized that was a pretty good summary statement. And it’s a statement that works not only for us, but for so many others around us.

For whatever reason, I have been fixated on how different things are becoming for us. And, in so doing, I think I’ve lost the broader view of what life is. Life is something different every day. Death is day after day with no change.

I have to admit I’m weary of some of the different that’s coming our way. Yet, I remind myself of what I learned from my good friend, Preacher Eddie. He was telling the story of Jesus calming the storm with that powerful order — “Peace, be still!”

As Preacher Eddie preached on, he asked us to consider the point of that story. I have to admit that I centered on the power of God, the Creator, and the awesome might of His mere words. And, as Eddie reminded, that is part of the story.

What I missed was what happened next. Jesus turned to his disciples and basically said, “So, what were you worried about? Did you forget that I’m right here in the boat with you?”

So, even though I can’t bring myself to writing a Christmas letter this year, I want you to know that the whole story of Christmas is this:

Jesus is in the boat. Whatever the change that comes, whatever the tragedy, God is next to us. Spreading blessings, sprinkling comedy.

Isn’t life great? When the waves grow a little threatening and wind howls around us, Nancy and I just turn to each other and say, “Remember, Jesus is in the boat.”

Merry Christmas. . .

Electrifying experience

Everyone I know has had the experience. Maybe it wasn’t with the electric company. But the cable company, phone company, water company.

So I went in early to a little business I accidentally acquired a few years ago to pay bills. Normally, I set the computer to remind me of bills on the day they need to be mailed. But this month I messed up. I entered the actual due date — today — as the day for the reminder.

As I ran the check, I glanced at the statement and realized that by mailing it today, it would be late. Not wanting a late charge or even one of those demeaning letters about how my electricity would be turned off and I would be subjected to public humiliation, I called customer service.

Of course, I had to do the requisite “shout every number that is remotely connected with you, the account, and the obscure prophecies of Nostradamus” until the machine finally gave up and connected me to a human.

She was a nice human. Very soft voice, though. I kept turning the volume up on my receiver. Eventually, I had given her enough numbers to satisfy her, told her my problem and asked if I could pay the bill locally today — on the due date — so that I wouldn’t be late. Several minutes later she gave me a string of places that would accept my payment.

“Of course,” she explained, “if you pay in person today it will still be late.”

It took her a couple of more minutes to enlighten me why, if I paid on time to her representative, my payment would still be late. “You know,” she said, “you can pay online and it won’t be late.”

“Great, now we’re getting somewhere!”

“BUT, after you transfer the money into our account, you’ll need to call us and give us the confirmation number so that we can manually make a note that you’re not late.”

“So,” I began slowly, “if I put money in your account directly on the due date so that I’m not late, I still have to call you to tell you that I’m not late.”

“You’ve got it!” she said cheerily.

So I made the payment online. Then dialed the number on the screen. Went back through the shout all the numbers through the phone again and finally reached a customer service representative. I provided account numbers, gave my name three times, and finally, after revealing my zip code, heard, “Oh, you’re not in my service area — let me transfer you.”

Went through the same pattern with the man who answered and then heard, “Oh, this is a business account — let me transfer you.”

The last customer service rep seemed nice enough. Gave her all of the numbers, plus some the others hadn’t thought of and she finally took the payment confirmation number.

“Don’t worry if you get any notices — we have a record that you’ve paid now,” she informed me brightly.

“But that’s why I called. I don’t want notices or late charges or anything like that.”

“Well we can’t guarantee that.”

Well, usually when I write I try to come up with some wonderful thought and teaching moment. Sorry, I’m empty. And I won’t stoop to identifying the electric company. Of course, you know that I live in
TeXas and it is a Utility company. Maybe you can “capitalize” on those hints and figure out who it is.

Bet I still get a notice and a late charge.

Sensitivity

As I watched him don his helmet and adjust his backpack, I felt compelled to step outside and share just one more blessing for his safety. No, I wasn’t seeing a soldier off to war. Instead, I was watching my grown son drive off on his motorcycle.

I’m not a fan of motorcycles. Although I’ve always been fascinated by them and, back in “Easy Rider” times, dreamed about heading cross-country on a two-wheeled powerhouse. And I have to admit that I admire the enthusiasm that bike owners exhibit and the obvious care to detail they show to their machines.

I guess I am a fan of the freedom and the exhilaration that would come from riding. At the same time, I have a pretty strong bias against the negative things. You know, things like falling off at high speeds and getting hit by other vehicles. The risk just seems to outweigh the rewards.

But Jeremy feels differently. As an adult, he and hundreds of thousands of bike riders have contemplated all of these things. And they’ve made their choice.

Life causes us to live with choices yet not necessarily accept them — both our own and those of others. If you truly embrace that idea, you discover two polar reactions. Either you’re insensitive to those choices. Or you nurture your capacity for sensitivity.

When you know a choice-maker (or someone like them), the sensitivity reaction seems to heighten. Because of my son’s choice to ride a motorcycle, I approach every intersection with some anxiety. I look twice or three times, just to make sure I haven’t overlooked a rider on his way. And, if my mind is elsewhere and I revert to the quick glance of earlier times, I’m plagued with guilt and dread as I pull into traffic and pray that I haven’t become one of those insensitive drivers who contribute to the high number of injuries and death.

As I pulled through an intersection this morning, I began thinking about how this change in sensitivity had affected me. And I began to think of growing sensitivities I have to many others who have made choices about things in their lives — or who are having to deal with the choices of others.

Life brings experience. Some people get to a level of experience very quickly in life — experiencing poverty, family break-ups, loss of loved ones. The rest of us are introduced to those themes over a longer period of time. Our choice becomes one of sensitivity or insensitivity.

I’m beginning to see life as one big intersection. When I pull up to that stop sign, do I look two or three times to see how my actions will affect others? When I see someone crash, do I pull to the side and assist?

Going about your day, I hope that you’ll spend a little more time at the stop signs, looking out for those who are experiencing difficulty in their lives. If you’re behind me, don’t honk. I’m just looking, too.

I See Alive People

Okay, so it’s a poor take-off on the more famous, “I see dead people” line. But I’m sitting here, drinking coffee at the local coffee shop located across from the burrito shop inside the large chain grocery store.

And I’m seeing living, breathing people.

Sounds stupid, right? You see these people everyday.

But for some reason, today I’m really seeing them. I’m remembering parts of their life stories. I’m asking questions and finding how really interested I am in them. It makes me recall a line I heard when we were interviewing a man to be our community minister.

He stood nervously in front of us. His short sleeve shirt didn’t hide the mostly completed tattoo of a women’s face on his forearm. This had been a dinner occasion. But he hadn’t eaten.

Joe started his story. He told of his birth and birthright as a heir to the Mexican Mafia. He talked about money and drugs . . . and prison. But as his life unfolded in front of us, his momentum grew. The words came more forcefully. He was energized by the fact that God had found him while in prison.

And Jesus had opened his eyes.

“I see souls,” Joe told us. “Everywhere I look I see souls.”

He sees alive people. Today, I am, too. I hope it’s not a passing quirk of nature.